


The Case of the Bohemian Box Turtle

by Siria



Series: The Clyde Trilogy [3]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Community: fan_flashworks, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:55:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Joan spots something unexpected in a store window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Bohemian Box Turtle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ for the prompt 'self-portrait.' Thanks to sheafrotherdon for audiencing.](http://fan-flashworks.dreamwidth.org/)

It was snowing in Soho: not so heavily as to slow them down, but just enough so that Joan and Alfredo were walking through New York City at its best. At this time of night and this time of year, there were few people around to disturb the thin layer of snow that blanketed the sidewalks. Joan liked it. It made the city that much more beautiful, and Atchison—with his size 12 loafers and a tendency to overpronate when he walked—that much easier to track through the quiet streets. 

Alfredo, however, seemed much less impressed. "I've got a nice warm bed," he said, "but it's in a whole different borough from me right now. Remind me why I'm not in my nice warm bed right now?"

"Because," Joan said, "we need two people to—"

She broke off suddenly, because a half block ahead of them, Atchison was swearing, prodding at his phone's screen and turning back the way he'd come. Joan laughed, bright and loud, and looped her arm through Alfredo's to steer them both smoothly into the entryway of the store to their right. The store was closed and the cover was minimal, but Joan hoped that Atchison would be distracted enough not to pay any further attention to them. It felt like a long thirty seconds as Atchison reached them and then passed on by, still muttering down at his phone. 

Joan let out a breath, because if he hadn't noticed them there was still a chance they could follow him to figure out where Suárez' hide-out was. Then she sucked in another, much more surprised one, and stepped closer to the glass storefront. 

"So are we following this guy or are we calling it a night?" Alfredo said. "Because I can't feel my toes, and I got some hot chocolate and a down comforter calling my name."

"In a minute," Joan said absently as she pulled out her phone and called Sherlock. When he answered, she put him on speaker and said without preamble, "Why is a gallery in Soho selling paintings by our pet tortoise?"

"Ah," Sherlock said. "Perhaps I neglected to mention that to you."

"Hold up, what?" Alfredo asked. 

There were three canvases on display in the storefront: one very large and two of the others quite small. Neat placards in front of each one identified them as 'Self-Portrait #1', 'Self-Portrait #2', and 'Meditation on Partita No. 2 in D Minor for Solo Violin, BWV 1004.' All of the canvases were covered in the meandering, multicoloured streaks of paint that you got when you strapped a paintbrush to a tortoise's back and let him amble wherever he wanted. 

Alfredo leaned in to look at them more closely. "Are those tiny tortoise footprints in the paint?"

"It's to assist me in another case I'm working on," Sherlock said. "A special request from MI6."

Joan blinked. "You're making Clyde paint so you can help out British intelligence?"

"Not at all!" Sherlock said, voice tinny but enthusiastic. "Clyde's artistic endeavours are of long standing and should be respected, regardless of his inability to voice his opinions on the matter. While the US Copyright Office may maintain, in section two-oh-two point oh two, part B, of its official policy that neither flora nor fauna are capable of producing copyrightable work—"

"Oh, brother," Joan muttered, closing her eyes for a moment. 

"—the fact remains that I encourage his creativity. That MI6's need for a coherent corpus of artistic work as bait at short notice merely afforded the serendipitous opportunity for Clyde's work to reach a wider audience while also assisting in the capture of an international cabal of thieves with a penchant for abstract modern art."

Alfredo stooped down, peering at the bottom of the canvases. "They all signed CHW."

"Clyde Holmes-Watson," Sherlock said. "Given that custody is shared, it seemed only appropriate to assign him a name reflective of both of our roles in caring for him."

"Well, you wouldn't want to be inconsiderate when it comes to—I don't know," Joan said, looking to Alfredo for help. "This feels like it should count as some kind of fraud, I just can't think what."

"Hell if I know," Alfredo said, shrugging, "but I like the green one. You think I could have that one when your case is over, Sherlock?"

"Sadly no," Sherlock replied. "I'm afraid that the gallery owner has already received an offer for 'Self-Portrait #2.'" 

"Someone wants to _buy_ it?" Joan said. No matter how much she looked at the painting, it failed to look like anything other than a mass of haphazard squiggles in varying shades of green, like a toddler's enthusiastic but incomprehensible tribute to St Patrick's Day.

"More than one person, actually," Sherlock said, sounding quite smug. 

"Exactly how much does a turtle's self-portrait go for?" Alfredo asked, folding his arms.

"Tortoise," Sherlock said. "And a trifle over $37,000."

"You know, I'm starting to feel like I'm in the wrong job," Alfredo said, while Joan quietly tried not to choke on thin air. 

"Well, should you ever desire to apprentice as a consulting detective," Sherlock said, "you will find it a most welcoming profession to those of intelligence looking for a change of career. Though I can't promise you any say in Clyde's guardianship—at the very least, Clyde Holmes-Watson-Llamosa is an unwieldy—"

With a sigh, Joan tapped the screen to end the call and put her phone back in her coat pocket. 

Alfredo raised an eyebrow at her. "He's gonna be pissed you did that."

"I'll just say it was performance art," Joan said. "'Self-Portrait of the Frustrated Artist Near Midnight.'"

"Hey, it could be worse," Alfredo pointed out. "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about."

"I know," Joan said. "I'm just… tired, I guess." She knew herself well enough to know that if she was this irritated, the feeling came from something more than a weariness with one of Sherlock's occasional bouts of ridiculousness. It had been five months since Andrew's death. A full night's sleep was a little easier to come by these days, but Joan didn't know that she'd ever again be a fan of the unexpected, no matter how inconsequential or well-meaning. 

Alfredo looked steadily at her for a long moment and then held out his arm to her. "Come on," he said. "Atchison can wait til tomorrow. There's an all-night place a couple blocks from here that does the world's best hot chocolate. My treat."

Joan tucked her hand into the crook of Alfredo's elbow. "You're on," she said, and when they stepped back out into the street together, Joan was glad for gentle snowfall, and the promise of a warm mug to wrap chilled fingers around, and the dependable solidity of a friend.


End file.
